


The Many Faced God Smiles

by The_Northern_Wolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Comfort, Comfort Sex, F/F, Fear, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Heavy Angst, Incest, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sister-Sister Relationship, Sister/Sister Incest, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-10-23 06:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Northern_Wolf/pseuds/The_Northern_Wolf
Summary: What if Arya managed to acquire Roose Bolton's face? Could she save Sansa, or be left to Ramsay and his dark desires?





	1. Please Find Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProjectClesker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProjectClesker/gifts), [iDragonSpyro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iDragonSpyro/gifts).



> This was an idea I had a while ago, going along with the plot: Arya comes home sooner and gets her hands on a precious face

Arya looked up at Winterfell from the hillside. It was almost how she had left it, the weir wood standing strong and gray, the towers rising to gray flat tops with the lightest dusting of snow. The sight tugged at her heart, urging her forward. But she had to wait, at least for a time.

Bolton banners hung like tapestries along the wall, the skinned man mocking her with gore and a wiry depravity. Her guts churned like cords of rope, fear clenching her chest. She stoked it, however, thinking back to her time at the House of Black and White. She survived her putrid beatings, the pallid darkness and all the torture of seeing her family murdered before her eyes. It was all so much, clouding her judgement, not that she had much of a moral compass left anyway.

Her horse nickered as she urged it forward through the snow. Her bag of faces bumped at her hip, promising a future. She could get inside those walls, if she played her cards correctly. Or, at the very least, she fought her way in and stole a guards face. Her thoughts were morbid, but stubborn. She had to do this, for her sister. For Sansa.

A light sprinkle of snow began to dot the sky like blurry stars shooting down from the heavens. It melted on her skin, collecting in fat drops across her head. The cold was almost comfortable, welcoming. And though she had gotten accustomed to warmth while in Braavos, she still had a heart for the cold, for winter.

Winter was coming after all.

The gates to Winterfell were darker than she remembered, possibly stained with a thick layer of blood, or maybe it was only her mind playing tricks on her. As she approached, she caught the attention of two men. They looked down at her with disapproving glares, as if she had already committed a sin.

"What business have you here?", one of them demanded.

Arya shook herself mentally. She had dawned one of her faces, coincidentally the very 'No One' who had tormented her for a year. The face was uncomfortable and she knew she would never be able to look in a mirror, but that was what was intriguing about it.

"I have a message for Lord Bolton", she said. Her voice was firm and practiced. She had practiced her words, her tone, her voice. And while it mimicked No One's, it still felt oddly like her own. That was the strange part of the faces: you were still yourself, even when you werent.

The larger of the guards raised a bushy eyebrow. "Who from?"

"Braavos", Arya said smartly. Her lies had become habit, and she had grown used to their feel, their lilt. It was belieable to everyone, her wrists and hands still had the marks to prove as much.

"Who are you?"

"I am not permitted to speak of who from, or what I have. That is the business of Lord Bolton alone. My name is Liana, a mere servant. If I am lying, I will surely be killed, even if I am a good liar. I have heard of the Boltons, they are devious are they not? If I am indeed telling a falsehood, I will be a toy to the Lord", she fought a smile. "And he will win either way. But I advise you do not turn me around, I have rode hard. It is urgent."

The guards shared a dubious look before nodding carefully, stepping aside.

Winterfell was just as she remembered, oddly cozy in the frozen north. Fires burned steadily and the space smelled of blood. That was new. And it didn't take her long to see why: bodies hung loosly and wrong ways up from slick polls, the snow and blood oozing together like rose petals on ice. It was sickening, seeing the banes bare bones caked in layers of red. She wanted to vomit but fought the urge. She could only imagine what Sansa had been through.

"Wait here", one of the guards mumbled.

At that exact moment, Arya forced herself to shiver. Very much so in their sight.

The men sniffed, curling their lips. "Southerner", one muttered darkly. "Follow me."

And that was how she weaseled her way up into the halls of Winterfell. But it was a darker, bleaker place. The stone seemed to emanate death and despair, the braziers screaming with sparks and wailing with flames. It mirrored how her soul was arching to run. But she stayed, as she would for a while to come.

"In here", the big man said, practically shoving her into a room.

It was dark as the sun began to set behind the clouds, reflected off the snow like they were tiny shards of mirror. The doors closed behind her, leaving her with just her own thoughts and this new face. She felt uncomfortable, deep in anxiety. But she fought down her human urges and waited, composed by the window.

Soon enough the doors reopened to let in a rather odd looking man. He was lanky and thin, long crooked nose and short clipped hair. Roose Bolton.

She swallowed the knot in her throat, turning to him and dropping down in a bow, averting her gaze. "M'lord", she murmured.

He grunted, shoeing his men away. Everyone had of course overlooked the smaller dagger hiding within her cloak. It was easily managed and crooked, the one she had used to murder No One. She had stashed Needle out in the snow, knowing it was too big for her needs.

"Braavosi?", Bolton asked, leaning against the wall and narrowing his eyes.

She nodded, feigning fear. She had to act afraid, act as any servant might in the gaze of this man.

"Yes M'lord."

He sniffed. "Whatever for?", he demanded, leaning forward so the rivets of his spin pushed up against his graying skin.

She took a step forward and he watched her with caution. She reached into her furs, as if looking for a scroll, or even a message by raven. Instead she pulled out the knife and lunged.

Before he could so much as utter a scream she had plunged the blade deep into his throat, smirking madly. She couldn't help herself, blood spurting onto her face and dribbling down onto the stone. His eyes were wide, blood pulsating where the vessels in his eyes bulged and broke. And finally he lay still, breathless and dead.

She sat back, wiping her lips and straddling his legs. She felt oddly triumphant, powerful and cunning. She grinned, gritting her teeth. She guessed she did not have long though, setting to work.

She started slashing, his skin peeling off like a fruit skin. His blood was sticky on her fingers, though loosing warmth quickly. The icy confines proved helpful, they would stale the scent and dry the warmth, aiding her crime.

At last she pulled away his face, looking at a bloody and distressful flayed man. How fitting. Her only regret was that she did not make his death more painful, or at the very least, slower.

She peeled away No One's face, the blood oozing onto her skin as she replaced it with this man's. Her body shifted accordingly, stretching and scrunching in all the right places. She had gotten used to the discomfort, taking solice in the pain. But it was exhilarating. She had killed the warden of the north. No. She WAS the warden of the north.

"Sansa", she whispered. "Hold on."

 

 

 


	2. I Cant..

Arya made swift work of her bloody task, her fingers nimble and quick. She was able to make No One and Roose one and the same, switching a face for a face. Before her lay her enemy, her tormentor, bloody with blood that was not her own. It was a strange mixed feeling of malice and pride, but it was short lived.

The guards came in, looking dazed and guilty. "You morons!", Roose snapped, earning flinches. "Did you not think to check her for weapons? She was no raven, I assure you. An assassin. You were fools to trust her as quick as you did."

The guards exchanged looks before bowing deeply, dropping to their meaty knees. "Forgive us m'lord!"

Roose sniffed, turning up his nose and hunching his shoulders. The body was foreign but also comfortable. Familiar in a way that Arya could not explain. She had grown considerably, but also stiff from age. It dagger her down and sparked her annoyance but she did not say so.

The day went by quickly, but Roose worked for her nicely. Everyone bowed or paid their fearful respects, eyes wide and lips quavering. She resisted the urge to smile. But it was wrong, and this was not her place. She had a reason, but that reason had yet to show her face. That was until she found Ramsay over along the far parapet.

The Bolton's back was turned, lips pursed and squashed face pale in the snow. He looked freakish, in Arya's mind, and she briefly wondered how a man like Roose could spawn something as aweful and hideous as that thing.

"Ah, father", Ramsay said, smiling. His dimples curved like bow strings, rising up on his cheeks in a way that made Arya squirm.

"Ramsay", Roose replied evenly. The words came almost on instinct, spoken at a high magnitude and engraved in his tongue. It was subtle things like that that made the faces worth it; she could adapt to who they had once belonged, personality, likeness and all.

"I heard you faced a danger thus evening?"

The sun had set, laxly sailing across the sky. It was slow going, and Arya had forgotten the time of day. Everything blurred together, but she had yet to see Sansa. For a gut wrenching moment, she thought her sister might have fled, escaped or worse, ended as one of the skinless corpses hanging from the walls.

"I did", Roose leaned against the balcony, tasting the snow on his lips as it dripped down his scalp. "But it was of no consequence. Foolish girl."

Ramsay snorted. "Of course. Most girls are. I recieved word from the Umbers", his voice trailed off, fat lips pulling together in a sneer. "It appears the wildings have more numbers than our initial inquiry, shame."

"Shame?", Roose asked. "You do seem to enjoy flaying wildling, I would hardly consider this turn as a shame."

She realized that that might not have been the write words but earned sour laughter. "Correct you are. Wilding screams are enjoyable and different, I could not complain about that", he paused. "If only my wife was as interesting, I can hard make her scream. Little whimpers and nothing more. Reek had more decency than that slut."

Arya's heart started thumping madly with anger and regret. The emotion was like a drug, flowing through her veins and burning. She wanted to kill Ramsay right then and there, and she did not doubt the falseness of the fact that she couldn't. But that would only lead to more danger, and an assurance of her sister's death.

Instead, Roose huffed. "You are spoiled, son, but you will have your fill of screams. The bastard must ride as we speak, be patient. And perhaps your wife, upon her bastard's death, will see where the true powers lie."

Ramsay smiled cruelly. "Of course. I looked forward to it."

Arya had learned two things from that conversation: Sansa was alive, however in sullen misery, and Ramsay was sick and twisted. She had already known both, or rather guessed, but having them proven was a whole new punch in the gut. It was hard to fathom, and only made her blood boil with rage. But there was nothing she could do, not yet. Not while Sansa was here. They had to get out.

The halls were dark, lit only by small caged sconces and braziers. In the great hall, a broad fire blazed. But Arya was searching. It was not hard to find Sansa. She was up in a tower, Ramsay's room. Roose had walked this path many times, again, like habit, and Arya instinctively knew the way to go. How had she ever survived without the faces?

The door was closed firmly, as if slammed and held shut. But she doubted it was locked. Only someone with something to hide locked his doors, and she was not convinced Ramsay would hide anything out in the open.

She took a deep breath before pushing the door open.

The room was dark, a small fire dwindling down to rough kindling. It looked as if someone had just set logs to it, having yet to catch. She had no doubt it was Ramsay, having left on the request of his guards who had captured a wildling. He would be back later in the night, buying Arya time.

Sansa was sitting on the edge of her bed in nothing by white fabric draped across her body. Her skin was pale and dotted with large splotches of bruises like the splashes of sunset skies. It made Arya's stomach churn. The finger marks were pushed so harshly into the older girl's skin, one could nearly see the grooves and scars in Ramsay's fingers.

Sansa whirled as Roose entered, eyes wide. She must have been expecting Ramsay, and a small relief danced behind her Tully eyes. "M'lord", she whispered uneasily.

Roose nodded, at a loss for words a moment. "Lady Sansa."

Her sister looked down at her legs which were sparse in terms of cover, how Ramsay liked it. The finger marks and bruises ran beyond her night shirt, down below where a girl of her age should be innocent of. Arya could not begin to imagine the torture which her sister had suffered, and it pained her to imagine.

"Why have you come?", Sansa asked, her voice small and meek like Rickon's had once been.

Roose thought for a moment, or rather, Arya schemed. If she revealed herself now, it could come out later. She could have no one knowing her identity, not until she found a better, safer way to reveal it. Not until she took Ramsay's face. She would get Sansa out, but not now. "Ramsay has informed me of your discomfort."

Sansa bit her lip involuntarily, looking away. Her eyes were vacant but glossed with a sheen of unshed tears. "It is nothing. I am fine."

The warden of the north felt nothing for her, Arya could tell. Not an ounce of pity, and the fact alone she had to act the same way made her thoughts scream and throat restrict. Could she bring herself to? No. She had to tell Sansa. She had to come clean, if not for her sister then for them both.

Roose reached under his chin, and Arya felt the mask. So simple, so deadly. The masks were poison to men with names, but for No One, they were as good as gold. Arya pulled it away slowly, watching as Sansa's eyes went wide with fear and confusion.

She shrunk down, her voice returning. Arya Stark. She was not the waif, not Roose Bolton. She was a Stark again. And she felt free, alive.

"A-Arya", Sansa said, her voice pitched and cracked with tears.

Arya sucked in a breath, body locking up for a split second before she kicked the door shut and ran to Sansa, wrapping her in a hug.

Sansa did not hesitate to hug back, crying into Arya's shoulder and wrapping her arms around the smaller girl's back and hugging her close.

The young stark sighed in relief, breathing out and in with abandon. Her sister was here, in her arms. Though she was shaking harshly, breaths shallow and labored. Arya felt a pang leap in her throat. "I'm sorry", Arya whispered, pulling away slightly.

Sansa looked at her with broken hope, shattered like the shards of a mirror. She shook her head quickly. "It doesn't matter, I thought you were dead! Brienne.. she said you were alive but.. I hardly believed her..", she trailed off, her tone becoming dark with remorse.

"I know", Arya said, keeping her voice calm and free of a ripple. She had to stay strong, for Sansa's sake. "Why didn't you go with her?"

Her sister bit her lip again, shutting her eyes tightly. "I thought I was safe.."

Arya sighed in exasperation, her expression softening as she saw Sansa's pained grimace. "Its over now, I will get you out of here", she promised. "Ramsay wont be able to hurt you anymore."

Sansa shook her head. "Arya, you c-cant stop him! Please.. p-please get out."

Hearing those words made Arya balk. Sansa was never such a defeatist, stubborn and prissy. But then again, it had been years, years of torment and torture. She had changed, possibly for the worst, but that remained to be seen.

"I'm not leaving you", Arya said firmly. "Not now, not ever. Not until you are safe. I promise, I swear on the old gods on the new."

This time the tears did fall down Sansa's cheeks, dribbling to pool at her collarbone. Arya's heart clenched painfully and she leaned down, wiping them away while caressing Sansa's smooth skin. She flinched slightly but melted at the touch, much like the cats at King's Landing that Arya used to chase.

Just then, footsteps could be heard down the hall, gaining with slow earnest. Arya was seized with a moment of fear. Ramsay. He was far down the hall, yes, and undoubtedly slowed by a barrage of questions from his council of traitors, but her time was limited.

Sansa seemed to sense what was going on, clutching Arya's sleeve with a knuckle-white grip. "Please don't leave", she whimpered, eyes wide.

Arya shook her head. "I have to. I am of no use if I am a corpse hanging on the hall", she paused, sucking in a breath. She leaned down and left a chase kissed on Sansa's forehead, listening to Sansa as more tears threatened to fall. "Stay strong, please. Have hope."

And so she had no choice but to leave, passing Ramsay with a nod. He was going to hurt her tonight, abuse her and make her scream. The guilt she felt could never be matched, but that would make revenge all the more sweet. No one touched her sister and lived.


	3. Please Accept Me

Arya awoke with a start, the crust of dried tears evident on her skin. Her thoughts pained her, thinking of the way she had left Sansa the night before, knowing full well the consequences of doing so. But she was in deep water, and had no choice. If she were discovered then, Sansa would have no chance of escape, ever. And that was more damning than her own need for revenge. 

She made quick work of dressing in plated ring mail and boiled leather, hoping to look like Roose might dress. It was tedious, this body was not her own. It had different needs, different wants and cravings. She rarely wore masks for long periods of time, it sometimes changed the mind, corrupted it until you could not distinguish yourself from the one you were wearing. It was a frightening thought, but it only spurred her need to escape. She was not leaving Sansa.

As she walked down the halls, she knew something was off. The guards looked stern and tense, muscled held fastened to their bones with a force better reserved for battle. It put her nerves on end, but kept calm. Should she falter now, even a little bit, she would be doomed.

The great room of the council was full of less people than it should be. Before the war of the five kings, it had been stuffed with men of all houses; Karstarks and Umbers, Tallharts and Glovers, of crowded around the table and discussing matters of importance. Now there were no dire wolves, no fists. They had all gone or changed their allegiances, something Arya would never forgive them for.

Where dire wolves once roamed, now sulked fleshless men of sorrowful scorn, all looking at her from bloody banners. She swallowed hard, seeing the other men in the room. Lord Karstark and lord Umber among them. But perched off to the side, with a rather ungainly smirk, was Ramsay Bolton.

It took her a moment to realize the delema, but once she did her heart nearly stopped beating. Needle lay across the table, glinting and bloodless in the light. That would be her downfall, that loved and worn sword. Her Needle. But not her Needle, not right now. She was not Arya Stark, she was Roose Bolton, and she could no betray this new persona.

"M'lord", the men bowed before their gazes turned back to the blade.

"It appears we have been infiltrated", Ramsay said carefully. For a painstaking moment Arya thought he knew, that he understood what was going on. That she was not who she said she was. But he looked away shortly, apathetic at best.

"Quite an assumption", Roose muttered, leaning against the table. "A burried sword is no cause for strife."

"But it could be", the Umber warned. "Bloody bastards could be hiding near as we speak. We should flush the land, no man under any other banner should be let through."

"If you must", Roose muttered, fingering the sword. It was so familiar, so powerful. She had killed the waif with it, killed the stable boy in King's Landing. Killed most men on her list, at the top of which was Ramsay Bolton. "But I suggest you think rationally. The sword is small, made for small hand and small man. We are looking for nothing more than a child."

Ramsay snorted. "It is a fine sword, crafted for a special hand. It was not made without purpose, whoever wields it must have some semblance to skill."

The conversation was bland and dry, not much to discuss. The comings and goings of scouts, all of whom reported a growing number of alliances to Jon Snow and his wildings. The Mormonts among them. That thought alone had Arya hiding a smile. Her brother needed to show himself soon, perhaps as a diversion. Perhaps as a savior.

Finally, the subject of conversation turned sour. Ramsay's mood changed. He started speaking slowly and without a hint of love. He approached Arya with quiet stillness that made her heart pound. It was cunning, she knew, the same expression the waif had before she stabbed her..

And it happened.

The blade was in her stomach, blood pouring out from the wound. She crumpled, pain splintering through her entire body. Her mind started screaming a protest but the strength left her. Breathless she lay still, barley breathing. She tried to still her movements. If they took her for dead, then she could live. They would leave her body, no, Roose's body. But what of the wound? What of the face? She would die like this, in an enemies body no less. She would die a Bolton, and so would Sansa.

 

She awoke slowly. A chill clung to her body in snowy knots clumping on her skin, chilling her to the bone.

She whimpered and tried to sit up only to be met with a wave of pain. She lay outside in the snow, her body left to the dogs but not quite. Her fingers were nearly black, lips blue and skin pla.e Everyone was inside save for a few men wearing frosty suits of armor. It was all too much. She wanted to die.

But then she thought of the waif. She had felt the same, tumbling through the streets and gawking faces. She had survived by the graces of Lady Crane. Now she just needed help, time to heal. But firs she needed a new face. But her bag of faces were stowed in her room.

Arya looked around and saw her chance. Roose's real body hung against the wall, skinned from the chest down. Flayed dead to be sure, but still alive. And there was her face. The girl may have been twice dead, but unrecognizable to these men. It was a start.

Mustering all the strength she had, after checking to make sure no guards were watching this corpse, she set to work. She peeled the face off, leaving a bloodied mess behind. It was scrambled, unrecognizable due to her spotty work. It would have to do.

She dawned this new mask, ripping the old one and burying it in the snow.

Arya took a few deep pained breaths, trying to find the least uncomfortable rhythm of movement.

She stood, wincing. But her wound had been frozen with layers of blood, snow acting as a somewhat effective bandage. She stalked across the courtyard, legs heavy and aching. They would question the disspearance of the body, and find the face. Yes. But she would be safe. A guards face would do, anything but her own and this damn waif.

The halls were dark, few guards along the walls. She passed one who was half asleep from the could, barley glancing at her as she limped by. She had someone in mind, risky as it was. She had not come to bed the last night, having been pushed away from Roose since she arrived.

Walda Frey.

Arya found her in a room off put from the rest of Winterfell. It was Bran's old room, high up in the tower. It made her sigh in sadness. She missed the older days when her siblings and her all lived under the same roof. When Robb and mother had been alive. When Ned had not gone to King's Landing and when Sansa was still a hopeful virgin. She nearly choked on a sob as she crashed into the room.

The large lady startled, holding a small babe in her hands. She was pretty only to a man of her equal look, but she had kind eyes, however startled. She looked afraid and worried, seeing a strange girl limp and bloodied into her room.

"Who are you?", she asked as Arya shut the door where she promptly collapsed.

"Please", Arya whispered, unable to move. "I need help."

 

Walda Frey was indeed kind, too much so for a Frey. But she was Arya's best chance, either that or death. She thought of Sansa, probably having heard of Roose's death. She would think Arya was dead, and it made the younger Stark feel worse, on the verge of retching.

Her wounds her dressed and clogged with cloth after being burned. It had hurt, but her mind was elsewhere. She had felt worse, endured much much more pain. Finally it was sewn and covered. Walda said nothing, acting out of the kindness of her heart.

"Who are you?", she asked again. Her voice was frail, denying her weight and name.

Arya paused. "I am no one", she said slowly, strength steadily returning. "But I cannot thank you enough for this", she paused. "Your husband was just murdered."

Walda looked pained but not beyond belief. If anything, relief was clear in her expression. "By whom?"

"Ramsay Bolton", Arya said.

Walda hung her head, looking at the sleeping baby in her arms. He was a dead babe squealing, Arya knew. Ramsay would never let him live. But Walda seemed to understand that. "I must leave", she announced, standing up.

Arya nodded, unable to speak.

 

She spent the night in the room, on the floor atop a pile of blankets and old linens. It smelled of home, very faintly. It smelled of Winterfell, the Winterfell she knew and loved. The one she yearned for her in her dreams. But now she had to act.

Waking before Walda was to depart, she crept out into the hall. She found Needle in the hall where Roose and by consequence she had nearly died. It was strange, seeing a few blood splotches still caked onto the floor. It was brown in the dark, and sticky.

She took care, hiding the blade in her cloak.

It took little to nothing at all to kill a guard. She may have been weakened, but she was till Arya Stark. She was a faceless man, well, at one point. She would not stop until her sister was safe.

As night crept into day, splashing of color lighting the horizon in parasitic bursts, Arya made her move. She set the Waif's face aside before dragging the body and hurling it out a window. Not before she made it look like he had jumped. She had staged the whole thing, taking his armor so as not to raise aware. She thought quickly, leaving the body in the snow. He was smiling, she made sure of it, curving his blue lips upward.

She made her way to Sansa's chambers, now as a nameless guard. He was unimportant, but served Arya's needs greatly. She may not have authoritative power, but if she got close enough to Ramsay again, she would kill him. Doubtless.

Ramsay had already left, setting out with his scouts as the new Warden of the North. He would hold his title proud, as if he had done anything to earn it.

Sansa was laying on her side. The bruises were still evident, and she was lost in sleep. The blankets were tousled and Arya dared not think what Ramsay had done to her the night before. It made Arya's chest ache but she said nothing.

Without remembering the mask clamped to her face, she rested her hand on Sansa's shoulder.

 


	4. Please Dont Make Me..

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay is a bitch, as per usual. But this is heavily rape/non-con, sort of. You'll just see, know it contains smut and a lot of it.
> 
> Damn this is my first ever smut fic so.. FUCK

Sansa startled and held back a scream. She whirled around to face Arya who forgot she was wearing the face.

"What do you-"

Arya cut her off with a finger to her lips, sighing in relief. But she could see the pain in Sansa's eyes, blistering there where the pain and fear lay. They slept like lions in a den, lashing out in the words of Ramsay and his men.

"Sansa", Arya said, keeping her tone soft. Ramsay could walk in at any moment, she knew. But she also knew that if she were caught now, she would kill Ramsay, even if it killed her. She would do it, giving Sansa time to escape. With Theon, with someone.

Sansa's eyes went wide. "Oh gods-"

Arya pulled her into a tight hug as she lifted the face away from herself. Being Arya Stark once more made the moment feel even better, Sansa's heartbeat against her chest, her breaths against her neck. Everything, the closeness. The warmth. She would not trade it for the world.

"Arya", Sansa sobbed, digging her hands into Arya's back. She was trembling, and badly. She was a far cry from the snobby Sansa Arya knew before the war. The one pining after Joffrey Baratheon. The friend of Beth and Jeyne. The one everyone loathed. The one who called her Horse Face. It hardly mattered anymore.

"Shh", Arya said, rubbing her sister's back. "Its ok. Relax."

"I- I thought you were dead", Sansa hiccuped. "Roose.. you.. Ramsay.."

Arya shook her head, pulling away to look at Sansa. "I almost died, yes. But.. I didnt. Im here now, ok? Thats all that matters."

Sansa nodded numbly, resting her head against Arya's shoulder and intertwining their hands. They were alone, so it felt. Jon was gods knew where, Bran gone. And Rickon.. Arya had heard nothing of him. Nothing of the boys. Everyone else was dead. She wanted to cry, but stayed strong. She would not crumble.

"Please dont leave me", Sansa whispered.

"I wont", Arya promised. She knew she would have to, but perhaps she could make an excuse to see her, steal a maid's face. Something. Anything. She would do what it took to make Sansa feel safe. She would kill Ramsay. "Im going to get you out of here."

Sansa nodded but was unable to say anything.

Arya was about to speak when she heard distant voices. Her eyes widened as she pulled away quickly, tossing Needle under the bed. "Ramsay", Sansa whispered, her shivering turning to small convulsions.

The Stark girl was at a loss. "Its ok", she said softly before she fled the room. Needle would have to wait, but she had no choice but to hide it. She was a foreign man to her, a different sword. A different person. She could be nothing else.

Ramsay was climbing the steps to the tower, his voice rough. He was mumbling to himself, as if angry. Which he probably was. It was only when she saw his eyes did she realize it was close to glee. What was happening? **(For future reference, he found Rickon and Osha.)**

He looked at Arya who was pretending to be making a round of her shift, nodding to Ramsay as he passed. "Wait", he said just as she was about to touch the steps.

She turned stiffly, nearly looking down at Ramsay. She was a bigger man, she realized. A guard through and through, an anointed knight. It showed; his muscles were wrought with strings of muscle and his grip was strong, nearly harsh. It had been on Needle as she once gripped it before she tossed it away.

"Yes m'lord?"

Ramsay smiled. "I have a treat for you, ser. Come on in."

The smile was wicked as he pushed open the door to his room where Sansa was still. She looked confused and afraid, more so than she should. More so than ever before. Arya's heart sank. She had an idea of what he was going to do. But he had a sword at his belt, a daggar in his cloak. Her sword was under the bed, away from her. She would not be able to kill him, she was unarmed.

"Ah Sansa", Ramsay said. "I have a gift for you". It was unclear if he was talking to Arya or Sansa, but Arya had a distinct feeling it was for them both. He closed the door, sealing their fate with an ominous scrutiny. "I am in a good mood and shall spare you for myself at a later time. But I am feeling generous, willing to share. A day like this should be treasured, and I want a show."

Arya's hard sped as fast as a war horse, rocking against her rib cage as she swallowed. This could not be happening.

"You", Ramsay turned to Arya. "Undress."

Arya had no choice but to do as told as she deftly began to undo the clasps of her armor. Sansa's lips were parted in shock and Arya shot her a worried glance. She would have to rape her own sister. How could she.. she couldn't.. Her mind whirled with fear and despair.

Soon she wore nothing but a pair of old and musty breeches. Ramsay eyed them before rolling his eyes. "Sansa", he snapped, making her cringe. "You too. My a good girl and undress for him why don't you?"

Sansa did. She did it slowly but without fault. She had been groomed to do as he asked, and it only made Arya want to kill him more. This was not her sister, she was changed, and Arya was convinced it was for the worse.

Sansa was bare from the waist down and Arya averted her gaze, turning to Ramsay instead who raised his eyebrows. "Well have at it", he declared. "I want to hear her scream. You seem to be a big enough guy for the job."

It was all too much. It made Arya want to retch, to vomit and to scream. She had to rape her own sister. It was all wrong, it shouldn't have been possible, but now she had the means to do it. For once, she was very much afraid. She had no choice.

She lumbered over to where Sansa laid, her fingers gripping the sheets as she glanced at Arya with fearful eyes. But Arya did as she was told, pulling down her breeches. The cold bit her skin and made her shiver but she ignored it. She had to stay strong.

And so she moved. She leaned down close to Sansa, minutes before consummating this vile act. "Ill be gentle", Arya whispered, at a loss for what else to do. "Its ok."

Sansa nodded, sucking in a tear filled breath and scrunching her eyes shut. Arya moved into her slowly. It was all wrong. Her mind screamed, her lips parted to let it out but all that came was a strangled moan. Arya's jaw dropped. NO!

Ramsay smirked. "She is quite stretched, I hope she is to your liking ser."

Arya could only nod in fear, rolling her hips in a way that made her sick. But she could not deny the feelings her body was racked with, the ones that made her movements more rough. But she had to retrain, she had to be gentle. She had to. She would be damned if she wasnt.

Sansa's breaths came in ragged and slowly, pained. She did not enjoy it, Arya could tell. She did the only thing she could think of; she kissed her.

At first Sansa did not kiss back, but then she melted into it. Her fingers tangled in Arya's shorter hair, togging at it as their lips warred. Sansa bit Arya's lip lightly, her body alight with fire. Arya was feeling pleasure now, bliss utter and complete.

With her own sister..

She ignored it. She forced her movements to be welcome and gentle, tender as it could be. Sansa continued to kiss her, breathless as they broke apart and continued to kiss. Then Sansa did something that was both surprsing and oddly pleasing, she moaned.

It was low and animistic but made Arya all the more turned on. What.. WHAT?!

Arya kept moving, panting in her movements. Sansa's thighs clenched around her waist as she held onto the guard. Sansa moaned again, this time in obvious pleasure. Arya sped up, feeling the need from both of them. Arya felt so wrong and sick, but it felt so good, like a kind of euphoria. It was strange to her, and she knew she would never want it again. At least, not in the near future.

Sansa buried her head in Arya's shoulder as she let out a high pitched moan that turned into a scream of pleasure. Arya's mirrored hers as she came, breathing hard as she rolled off her sister. Her manhood was limp down, covered in milky white fluid.

Ramsay looked slightly shocked and confused. "Good job", he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Arya looked over at her sister who was breathing hard, face flushed. She didn't smile, but her body shook from the after affects of her high. Arya still felt strange but she couldn't deny the buzz of excitement throughout her body. It was different and new, and she felt elated. Almost proud.

Ramsay had never been able to make Sansa feel that. Damn him. She deserved a thousand orgasms, not him. Never him.

Then Arya got an idea.

Sansa sighed audibly. "Enjoy yourself whore?", Ramsay sneered. "Ill have to make sure of that myself."

He started to undo his belt, looking on with a half smirk that was as deranged and maniacal as his tendencies to sadism. It made Arya's blood boil with anger.

"Please", Sansa whispered as he walked over. She no longer looked willing, she looked afraid. Ramsay paid no mind to Arya who was rolled and sitting on the cold stone floor. She deftly watched as Ramsay stalked closer, pants down as his manhood sprung free.

Arya put her idea into action. She pretended to look for her clothes as she scratched across the floor, reaching under the bed until her hand found the hilt. It was still warm, as if no time had passed. But it was familiar. Her Needle. Her sword. Her brother's gift.

Arya pulled the guard's face off, turning to herself. She was thankful for not having kicked off her pants, but her chest was bare like a barbarian or wildling. It only made her feel more powerful.

As Sansa squirmed, Ramsay readying herself, Arya seized her moment. She grabbed Ramsay's shoulders, heaving him up and holding Needle against his throat. He flailed until the blade pushed into his neck, a drop of blood dripping to rest along his bared chest.

Sansa gaped at her, fear replaced with worry and.. triumph?

"The last face you will ever see", Arya said, mouth open as she looked towards the wall. "Is a Stark smiling down at you. I am Arya Stark of Winterfell."

He looked up at her with wide, afraid eyes. She slit his throat.

It was over in a heartbeat, his body crumpling to the ground in a heap. Blood spurted from his neck, spraying across the sheets and onto Sansa's legs. She was silent for a long while as Arya just stood there, afraid and full of pride. She kicked the body away, disgusted.

He had died naked and afraid, about to rape his own wife. Justice. The Many Faced God smiled.

"Arya", Sansa breathed, disbelief lacing her voice.

She shot up off the bed and wrapped her arms around the shorter girl, pulling her into a tight hug.

Arya dropped Needle, hugging her sister without abandon. They were safe, for the moment being. Ramsay and Roose were dead. The North was free. And Sansa was hers.

But the thoughts of how she had just defiled her sister filled her mind and scared her. What could she say?

"Thank you", Sansa whispered, stroking Arya's hair. "Gods Arya!", her voice was thick with tears. "I am so sorry he made you-"

Arya shushed her. "It wasn't your fault either. It was his and only his. Damn bastard", she kicked the body again before turning to Sansa.

Before she could speak she was cut off by her sister's lips.

 


	5. Please Dont Leave Me

Arya was stunned into silence, her heart beating like a war drum. She felt faint, sick but in a way, it felt good. If Sansa were not her sister, and she had the proof of blood, she would hungrily devour the girl. But now.. she couldn't. She would not sink as low as a Targeryn or Lannister.

She kissed back at first, her lips moving of their own accord. It felt like fire was being sewn into her skin, alighting in places she didn't want to think about. She couldn't love her own sister, she couldn't. But her mind screamed and thrashed within her skull; she may have been a liar fit as a silver tongue, but she could not lie to herself.

"Sansa", Arya said, grabbing her sister's shoulders and pulling them apart. She shook her head, lips slightly parted but alight with passion. Why did it feel so good, when it was so bad? The thought made Arya shudder. "What are you doing?"

Sansa looked taken aback for a moment. And.. afraid. Damn those eyes, clouded with memories far too rancid for other people to gaze at. Her lips trembled but she took a breath, shutting her eyes before frowning. It was ladylike, so much so that it made Arya question. Sansa's personality could flip on a dime, she knew. It had before, and it would again. But this time she was scared, fighting to stay composed and forcing herself to act as stern as possible.

Arya's gut wrenched. She wanted to hug Sansa, to stroke her hair and kiss her and tell her it was going to be alright. But it wasn't alright, and it never would be again. She had to live with that, and live with the fact that her sister was not in love with her. She was just worried, she needed solace. That was it..

"You.. you kissed me.. before", Sansa was at a loss, her facade shattering for a keen eye. Arya swallowed hard. She had kissed her. She had initiated it. Why had she..?

"I was trying to make you feel more comfortable", Arya replied sternly, keeping the shake out of her voice. She clenched her fists, backing up a small step. Needle brushed against her foot, still slick with warm blood.

"More comfortable?", Sansa echoed. She looked pale, far beyond afraid. She was mortified. "I thought- I'm sorry! I didn't mean to.. I-", her voice cracked with a splinter of unshed tears.

Arya sighed. She wanted to kiss her again, but she knew it was wrong. Sansa was looking for solace, for the same feeling Arya had given her just minutes before. That was it..

"Its ok", Arya said, running her hands up and down Sansa's arms.

Sansa shuddered but turned away, a light blush dusting her cheeks. "We need to tell Jon", she decided, finally pulling away and turning towards the window. She quickly pulled on a dress more suitable of her title, and Arya did likewise, though with her leather breeches and fighting mail.

Arya nodded but could say nothing. Her tongue felt like a lumpy worm in her mouth, snaking along her teeth and unable to form the words she needed to say. 'Please.. again..'

She never spoke.

 

The raven for Jon was quickly sent, and Arya donned Ramsay's face. Jon would know the truth, and so would Sansa. Possibly Walda Frey, if she knew how to guess. But besides that, it remained illusive. None of the guards batted an eye, no one dared question him. It wasn't until Arya found Reek sulking in the kennels did she do a double take.

She had seen the miserable wretch of a brother prowling around like a wild beast. He was as much a dog as anyone, but she knew there was a reason. She had seen people change, Sandor Clegane, the faceless men, even her own sister. But Theon..

"T-Reek", Arya stated dryly. This body made her feel gross, just the thought of what it had done drove her mad. The pain it inflicted, the torture. But she would be damned if she didnt do a little more to teach Theon a lesson about hurting her sister.

The man looked up. His face was scrawny and bone white, cheeks hollowed and eyes dulled. He was afraid, perpetuallt shivering and twiching restlessly. She could not bring herself to feel but a small amount of pity, and even then it was forced.

"M-master", the bow cowed. He was shrived, half the joking prankster she knew from her girlhood. It made her sick, just seeing, smelling this pitiful man. It was tragic, at best.

Arya glanced behind her, knowing no one dared come close to Ramsay when he was with his dogs which were howling in a state of rage. Arya silenced them with a familiar snap of her fingers, and felt a pang of longing for her Nymeria.

"I am not your master", Arya said, taking a step closer.

Theon scrunched himself into the corner, eyes lost within the shadow of his brows. He really was a dog, covered in dirt and straw like nothing more than a wild animal. A dog with no bite, and a squeak of a bark. Arya pulled the face away, letting her hair fall free.

Her mother's ward balked, eyes widening. He looked pale, but a small amount of color returned to his face. "A-Arya!"

"No so loud!", she hissed, crouching down next to him. "What in the Seven happened to you?"

Theon shivered. "Nothing a little girl-"

"I am not a little girl", Arya growled. Maybe she was the animal. "Tell me."

He flinched but pursed his chapped lips. "Many things..", and he told her. Not every torrid detail as she had grown accustomed to, but it was more than she hoped. It was awful, what Ramsay had done to him. But at the back of her mind she saw Sansa, afraid and teary because of him. Where was Theon to save her?"

"Come on", Arya offered him a hand before throwing on her face again. He flinched but relaxed as she led him out of the kennels and got him a proper bath.

Arya glanced Sansa down the corridor but only received a modest nod. They were in agreement: that morning never happened. No use in digging up memories better left forgotten. And so it went on, waiting for Jon, and when he finally did respond, it was with a great suspicion.

'I will not be taken for a fool, nor will I chance this opportunity. I will send my scouts to Winterfell. If they do not return, or if they arrive with skin less than they had come with, then there will be no truth of what you say.

King in the North, Jon Snow.'

Arya swallowed but quickly wrote back. She would not be killing any of his men today, or any other day.

It had been two days since Arya and Ramsay had become one, and still she had spoken little to Sansa. With counsels of war and complaints of the people, it hardly mattered. But deep down Arya felt the sorrow. She knew it was her fault, all of it. Why had she kissed Sansa? Why couldn't she have just forgotten it, gone on with her life?

But that night she heard at first the rustling of sheets. She had taken to sleeping down the hall from Sansa, close enough to protect but far enough not to cause any discomfort. When asked by men why she had stayed away form her own wife, she had said that the girl was obnoxious, wining and writhing like a beast.

Tonight that statement held true.

Arya awoke from a shallow sleep, blinking away the haze that clouded over her eyes. The moon was high and full like a bone shield, and a few stars dotted the land. A storm was brewing on the horizon, long and lanky. It pulsated like a charred hart, the clouds creeping ever closer. Thunder and ice would come soon enough, but for now the night was young, and even warm for winter.

Across the hall though, she heard small whimpers. She remembered how Bran used to do that when he was scared of Old Nan's stories. He would always cry, but soon he got over it. He knew how to cope, and so did Arya and Sansa. That thought made her stir. She did not fancy walking in on her sister, but she had a feeling it was needed.

As she stalked across the hall and pressed her ear to the door (Ramsay now), she heard it. Muffled cries. They were shrill and choked, held back by a wall of sobs. Arya's heart clenched and almost without thinking she walked into the room.

It was dark, only the fire pit smoldering gently. It gave off enough like though, but it cast the space in eerie shadows. She shut the door and stood, waiting. It was hot and humid nearly, but Arya could sense the dismay. A nightmare.

Sansa was on the bed, sheets pulled away and strewn about in a mess. Her red ribbons of hair were splayed and knotted and her eyes fluttered violently, her entire body shaking and gleaning with sweat.

Arya rushed over and shook Sansa's shoulder. "Sans!", she said in a harsh whisper.

It took a moment, but Sansa's eyes shot open and she bolted upright. Her spine was stiff and her cheeks were slick with tears. She looked at Arya and bit back a scream before erupting into tears.

Arya cursed herself for not taking off the face, but as soon as she did she pulled her sister into a tight hug.

Sansa cried relentlessly into her shoulder as Arya rubbed her back and ran her fingers through the girl's fiery hair. It took what seemed to be hours for her to calm down, reduced to sniffles and a slight tremble. When she lifted her head to look at her sister, her eyes were quaking like small sapphires.

"Its ok", Arya said sadly, stroking her thumb over Sansa's cheeks.

Sansa melted into the touch, holding onto Arya like her life depended on it. "No one will hurt you now."

The Tully shook her head. "Father.. he..", she choked. "He died, all because of Joffrey. I was stupid to believe he would have mercy. I was stupid to trust Little Finger! He sold me to.. to.. Ramsay. He-", she was stopped when Arya put a finger on her lips.

"Dont think about it", she murmured. "He cant hurt you anymore."

Sansa shook her head. "But I can still picture it.. every little thing.. every place her touched me. Every bruise.. every beating", she was a mess. Her voice was split in cracks and rivets of pain. Arya could only watch in horror and pity, her chest swelling with regret and remorse.

"Sans", Arya whispered, leaning her forehead so it rested against Sansa's. "The bruises will fade, and so will the memories. It will all be ok. Someday you will look back and find strength in your pain, you will learn and you will find happiness again", she bit her lip. "With someone who will treat you right."

Sansa froze. For a moment, the entire room was still. Even the wind beyond the windows seemed to melt away to the subtle flick and crack of ash as the fire rippled. "But they will always leave again.." Her voice was so soft and so low Arya could barley hear her. But she held her breath.

Gods how she wanted to kiss Sansa, to wipe away the tears and make her feel the heat of pleasure. How she wanted to love her sister, love her and lather her with joy. She had been through so much that it hurt to think, and yet she was here. And so was Arya, who had stood around for years without doing a gods damned thing.

But now she could.

She gave into her desire and pressed her lips to Sansa's.

Sansa gasped and her eyes shot open wide.

Arya rested her hand on the back of Sansa's neck, pulling them closer. Her lips moved delicately with a gentleness that was foreign to her. But she didn't want to hurt or scare Sansa.

Sansa kissed back slowly at first, her movements ginger and tentative.

"Let me love you."

 


	6. Please Let Me..

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How many chapters should this be?! Honestly, I might do a complete AU following after the events thus forth. The whole Battle of The Bastards, Winter is Coming nonsense. What do you guys think?
> 
> Also this was a dry night for ideas so bear with me..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pure fluff and smut chapter with a heavy angst and much comfort. Enjoy my friends, for these chapters will be few and far between. But what did you expect? Its Game of Thrones for crying out loud!
> 
> Also this is the first in depth smut scene I have ever written so.. yay?

At first Sansa stiffened, her bones going rigid her eyes widening. Arya felt her heart plummet to the pit of her stomach but she refused to let it show; she could make this into a lie if she must. As she most likely would, but what happened next made her mind go blank as a slate of stone.

Sansa pushed into her, tangling her fingers in Arya's hair and interlocking their lips even more. It was passionate and without remorse or regret. Arya smiled softly, running her hands up Sansa's back and tasting the saltiness of tears. Her heart was flaming in devotion, an emotion she thought was foreign to her.

Her older sister pulled away suddenly, blushing madly. Her firey locks of hair fell knotted around her shoulders, but Arya couldnt help but love the look. Sansa was vulnerable right now, a sight Arya had never seen before. Back before the war of the five kings, Arya and Sansa had never shared private moments like this. The older was always closed off to her, cold even. It didnt help that their tastes different beyond reckoning, but Arya couldnt help but look past it. It had been so long, such a time where she had only thought of her family. She had become attached to them, in an out of body way.

That love manifested into this, she knew. But she couldnt help but pride herself in it. She was growing, changing, and she was anything but 'no one'. The Many Faced God was smiling nonetheless, for he knew there was plently of bloodshed to come.

"I- Ive never felt that before", Sansa whispered. She was panting slightly, her lips puffy from crying and Arya's small bites of love. "Ramsay never.. gods I was stupid."

Arya thought her sister might relapse into tears again, but instead she smiled and chuckled sourly. "Princes and fairy tales, that was what I believed. But you saw, you knew he was vile all along", she was speaking of Joffrey, her eyes distant and closed off in clouded memories better left forgotten. "I should have listened to you, what would have happened if I did?"

Arya thought for a moment. If Sansa had fled King's Landing with her.. she would have died. Arya doubted she would have survived the journey with the hound, the encounters with the Faceless Men and the Red Wedding. She sighed deeply, momentarily thankful that Sansa had never seen the aftermath of such a dark night. But instead her memories were replaced with something equally as cruel: Ramsay Bolton.

"But you didnt", Arya replied evenly, though her tone was light. "We cant think about that, only move forward. Jon.. he will send riders. I will reveal myself to them, and then we will pledge allegiance to him", she was rambling now. "We can align the Boltons, Karstarks and Umbers with Jon's army, and we will march on King's Landing and rid it of that putrid queen. The Iron Throne.. will Jon take it? He doesn't seem like the-"

Sansa cut her off with a kiss, laughing. "Shut up Horseface", she muttered, not unkindly. Arya giggled girlishly, loving the taste of her sister. The previous disgrace that had been clawing up her belly was gone, replaced with a joy she had not felt since she was chasing cats for Syrio.

Arya pulled her closer, pushing Sansa back onto the bed and lacing their fingers tightly. She bit Sansa's bottom lip, taking it into her mouth and earning a moan. She was practically straddling Sansa's hips as they kissed, where she ran one of her hands up her sister's waste.

Sansa was submissive in an odd way, but didnt make a move to stop her. That was until Arya's hands found their way under Sansa's shirt did her breath hitch and she shoved Arya away.

She curled in on herself, pulling her knees to her chest and biting her lip. "Im sorry", she whispered, looking away as a cascade of hair blocked her face like a turret of flames. Arya's heart hurt, but not out of offense. She knew what her sister felt, though she did not know what it was like.

"No, im sorry, I shouldnt have done that", Arya said, rubbing Sansa's shoulder and leaning closer. She wrapped an arm around her older sister, pulling her close. The wind outside whipped the shutters making them clap as thunder rolled in the distance. She could hear the increasing beat of raindrops against the walls of Winterfell, slowly turning to shards of ice. Maybe the gods were angered, but at who Arya didnt know.

Sansa shook her head before turning to Arya, tears in her eyes. Arya brushed a few stray strands of hair away from Sansa's eyes, peppering her face in small, chaste kisses. Her previous moments of heat forgotten, she only wanted to make her sister feel better.

Sansa shuddered but didn't pull away, leaning into each touch like an eager babe. "Its ok", Arya said, resting her forehead against the other girl's. "Its not your fault."

For a while, they sat still like that. A sudden chill crept into the room but they ignored it, listening to the patter of rain and hail beyond the window which flexed. The walls creaked and the wood groaned above their heads, sounding like ghosts of the crypts below. "I will never hurt you", Arya suddenly vowed. "I swear by the old gods and the new, I will never hurt you."

Sansa gazed at her for a moment before smiling sadly. They shared a quick kiss before Sansa buried her head in Arya's collarbone, breathing shakily. Her body was still like a statue, her skin pale but still lined with blotches of bruises. Arya ran her fingers over each one she could see, kissing Sansa's head. This was a stolen moment she knew, one that would last for scarce a time and be replaced by others few and far between. But she wanted to lavish her sister with love and devotion.

"Sansa?", Arya asked furtively. Sansa looked up at her with big blue doe eyes. "Can we try something?", she left room for objection, keeping her tone soft.

Sansa eyed her warily, lips quavering slightly. "I don't.. I don't know", she whispered, looking away.

Arya lightly grabbed her chin, locking their eyes once more. "I will never hurt you, I promised. Do you trust me?", she ran her hands up and along Sansa's arms causing her to shiver.

"Arya.. I dont think I can..", she bit her lip. "But I do trust you."

"Ill stop if you tell me, ok?", Arya asked. She knew that she had to go slow, but she wanted to show her sister what she could feel, comfort and pleasure. She needed to show her that, for her own life. She couldn't live it closeted and afraid, and Arya knew a thing or two about that.

Sansa nodded, leaning down and looking at Arya with parted lips. "Just.. be gentle.. please", Sansa plead.

Arya leaned down and kissed her gingerly. "I will." She forced herself away from her own thoughts, knowing Sansa wouldn't return the favor, at least not yet. Everything was moving so quick, so fast that it seemed surreal. But the night was young and morning would come slowly.

She started kissing her with more passion, running her hands up Sansa's side until she reached her chest, going slow and tentative. Her breaths started to sped up as Sansa stiffened, but didn't raise an objection. Arya made sure to keep her movements gentle and kind, not allowing herself to be swept away in the heat of the moment.

She rolled her thumbs over her sister's nipples and earning a sharp groan. Sansa gasped, breaking their kiss for a moment and squirming. "Gods..", she breathed, staring at Arya with a slight shock. Arya smirked, continuing her play, though still without much force.

Sansa gasped and moaned, arching her back into the touch and trying to gain more contact. Arya didnt tease her much thought, pulling her nightgown over her head and breaking the kiss for only a swift moment. Sansa's chest was bare and covered in marks and scars, some that Arya had never seen before.

Jagged pink lines bluging with scar tissues, running the length of her breasts and down her abdomen. Sansa looked momentarily uncomfortably, wrapping her hands around Arya's arms which locked her in place. She looked away, sighing heavily. "Its hideous, isn't it?"

Arya wanted to object harshly but instead leaned down, kissing along her pale skin and across each and every cut, gentle and slow. Sansa's breath hitched as she wrapped her arms around Arya's shoulders, holding her close. The younger girl smiled, continuing her ministrations until she took a pink bud into her mouth.

She rolled it over her tongue, savoring each moment. Sansa gasped and arched her back again, leaving Arya to hold her down. Her sister moaned and panted, her eyes shut and fists clenched in the hem of Arya's shirt. She didn't bite or nip, but made her movements deliberate and passionate.

Arya grabbed Sansa's other breath, lightly squeezing it and earning a sharp intake of breath. "Arya", she whimpered. "Gods.. I.."

"Shh", Arya said, sitting up and capturing Sansa's lips. "Dont be afraid."

Sansa nodded, blushing deeply.

Arya's fingers worked to the hem of Sansa's small thing, hooking her fingers and pulling it down the length of her thighs. Sansa sucked in a breath through grit teeth, revealing more bruises. Less scars, but to Arya's horror, bite marks where sharp teeth had gouged. From animal or Ramsay (though a tough distinction it was), Arya didn't know. She stiffened at the sight, the blotches and red cresents riding all the way up to her womanhood.

It took her a moment to hear Sansa's sniffles over the crack of thunder and rain outside. She looked up and saw tears running down Sansa's cheeks, light and shimmering in the dark. Ropes of water welled in her eyes as she tried to wipe them away.

Arya lightly rested her hand against her sister's cheek, wiping away the tears before kissing her forehead, then her lips. It was chaste and slow, but she tasted salt again. It only made her gut clench and nerves tingle. Gods how she wished to revive Ramsay only to kill him again and again, flaying him and feeding him to his dogs.

"You are beautiful", Arya said softly. Sansa looked at her with bleary eyes but shook her head. "He told me if I did that.. no man would want me.. but his dogs..", she laughed angrily before breaking into another sob. "I wanted to die. I would have too. It would have been better than that."

Arya's shoulders sagged and scrunched her eyes, imagining a future where she was too late, where she arrived in Winterfell only to find Sansa's corpse, flung out a window. It was because of Ramsay. It took every ounce of her willpower not to charge down the halls and kill every Bolton who ever stood. But not now, they were troops for the war. She hissed under her breath.

"He was a pompous bastard", Arya swore, still wiping away Sansa's tears with a sad expression. "But he's dead, thank the gods. But your not", Arya paused to give another kiss. "And this dark world stayed a little brighter. Jon is the sword in the darkness, and you are the fire in winter."

Sansa smiled slightly, her eyes brightening a fraction. "Arya.."

"Let the blood of the fallen be your fuel, for their memories will power you beyond the wall, beyond the coming winter. You will light the way of our house, of Westeros and Essos, and the lands beyond", Arya felt her heart swell with pride. "Stronger than any stag, any lion, any wolf. You will prevail, and Ramsay will become nothing but a wisp of smoke long forgotten."

Sansa wiped her eyes. "Thank you Arya", she said, smiling. "My Little Wolf."

Arya blushed and kissed her fervently, nearly surprised when Sansa wrapped her hands around her waist and pulled their bodies closer. She started kissing down Arya's neck, smiling.

The younger girl bit her lip, seeing her sister again for what felt the first time. This was the Sansa she knew, and the one who she would protect from any Baelish, from any Lannister, Baratheon or Targaryen.

She kissed down Sansa's chest, stomach to her hips where she started to nip playfully. Sansa moaned, running her fingers through Arya's hair. Arya looked up at her worriedly but all she got was a muted "Dont you dare stop", and that was all it took.

Arya brushed her fingers over Sansa's wet slight, earning a sharp intake of breath following by a moan. Her fingers knotted in Arya's hair, pulling in a pleasurable pain. Though she could still sense some hold back from her sister, a slight stiffness, it was far less than before, and she prided herself for it.

Her fingers started moving quicker, up and down to that bundle of nerves which made Sansa cry out. Arya didn't stop, slipping one finger inside while her thumb played with Sansa's clit, making the older girl writh and moan, nearly screaming and panting.

She started to crook her finger, feeling a slick wetness engulf it. She continued, only to hear a strangled "more", from Sansa. She quickly obliged, adding a second finger and twisting them together. Before Sansa could scream too loudly, she took her sister's lips and locked them furiously. They warred for a moment before Sansa started shaking, close to her release.

Arya kissed down her neck, biting her collarbone and dragging her tongue up the supple flesh. Before Sansa peaked, she added a third finger which tipped her over the edge. She didnt bother to try and stifle her sister's screams, knowing everyone would pass them off as shrieks of pain from Ramsay Bolton.

Sansa was shaking and sweating, her breaths thick with exhaustion as she came down from her high. "Arya", she whispered, running her hand up Arya's cheek. "Gods that was.. amazing.."

Arya smirked, rolling off of her. She didn't feel a need like she thought she would, and reveled in the fact. Sansa pulled her close, wrapping her arms around the smaller girl and resting her chin on Arya's head. The younger girl relaxed, yawning slightly and snuggling into her sister's warmth. "My Red Wolf", she murmured.

She could sense Sansa's smile as she ran her fingers down Arya's back, closing her eyes.

They fell into a peaceful sleep, one that should have lasted a lifetime but instead lasted a few mere hours.

But they awoke to the sound of hoof beats and a wind of promise blowing through the gods wood.

 


	7. Please Stop..

The messengers arrived in the morning, early in dawn. The guards at the gates all frowned and aimed their crossbows, but Arya, acting as Ramsay, stilled them. The morning was cold, as it usually was this far North. But she had grown to like the cold, it held her in a tight embrace, a promise of home and a life to live.

"Let them pass," Arya commanded and the guards complied.

Early, towards dawn, Arya had awoken wrapped protectively around her sister who for once looked at ease. A small smile had ghosted her lips and her firey hair was tangled not from abuse but from love. It only made Arya's chest swell with pride and devotion. Ramsay was a bastard bitch to forsake what he had.

The three messengers were given food and a warm fire to sit by, though they looked tense and sweated despite the cold. She gave her quick orders, saying that the Bolton's would stand down and align with Jon if he spared them. It wasnt convincing, but she signed off on the oath and swore her fealty. It would come later with a more serious air, but for now it would have to do.

She had considered the unrest and hate this would spur. But she was Ramsay Bolton. He was feared. And if she had to, she would skin anyone who would oppose her. They were all murders and killers anyway. They deserved to die.

The thoughts struck her with a force that winded her. Those were not her thoughts. She would not be skinning anyone, no matter how vile. They were people too, regardless of their past actions. They may be Boltons and the traitorous Karstarks and Umbers, but they were not useless. They were human just as she was, if not more so. They deserved to survive through winter, so why did she doubt it?

Before she had a chance to take the face off however, a council was assembled. There was outrage at her decision, but she had though of this. "There is a greater threat than us," she said slowly. "Oaths are meant to be broken, you all have proved as much," she bitterly directed her attention to the lord Karstark and Umber. "Once Cersei kneels and shows us her fealty, we will kill her and be done with it. Then we set our sights to the bastard Snow."

It was a weak excuse, but one nonetheless. Ramsay would never do this. He was far too cunning, ruthless. Vile and putrid. But he was dead and Arya was in his place.

The council broke after that, but many left, deserting in great numbers. It hardly mattered though. They were few compared to the wildling army. It would make no matter when Jon came down from the North and took back Winterfell.

As she left, reaching to pull the face away, she was met by Walda Frey, gingerly nursing the small babe that was now, she supposed, her half brother.

"M'lord," she bowed deeply before glancing behind her and shutting the door. "I worry for my child, your brother, m'lord. The King-In-The-North.. will he kill the babe? He is the heir to-"

Arya slapped her. Hard. It was nearly an instinct. "I am the king in the north!" she spat. "And that child is no more an heir than me. I AM the son of Roose Bolton, a recognized member of his house. Do you dare deny me whore?"

She shrunk back, looking small despite her size. "N- no m'lord. I was only worried for the boy.."

Arya waved her hand dismissive. "Feed him to the dogs for all the shits I give. He is nothing, no one. A bastard as much as me."

And then an idea struck. The boy was not an heir, well, to some he may be. If she got rid of him then that wouldn't be a problem. The North would remain hers, and no one could be there to oppose her, now or in the future.

"Actually, come with me," Ramsay said kindly. "I do have a surprise for you. It may ease your pain."

She eyed him warily but followed anyway. The guards nodded stiffly, watching him as he went. "Keep your eyes down," he barked angrily. "Lest you loose them."

He led the woman down through the spiraling halls, back held firm and chin held high. It wouldn't do for the men to see their lord weakened after his decision. Though they failed to see his plan. if Jon trusted him any number of plots could come to fruition. He hid a smile.

The yard was near empty, many of the men inside where it was warm. The storm had added a fresh layer of snow and the ground was slick and icy. The lumbering oaf followed him at a small distance, but kept after him like a dog. _Poor stupid craven._

"M'lord?" Walda Frey asked. "Where is it we are headed?"

The barking of the kennels filled his ears and made him smile. He allowed her to pass into them and she looked confused and concerned. The babe started to bawl from all the noise and Ramsay grimaced. _This Frey was stupid, no doubt._

It didnt take long for the dogs to feast, tearing and gnashing away pieces of fatty flesh. It was slick with blood but soon the screams died low and all was left was the squelch of teeth and the small barks and growls of assertion. Ramsay grinned, dusting off his shoulders before flapping his cloak.

 

As the day dragged on, his pride weighed him down. Gods he needed to be away from these folk, brackish and dull they were. It was as if the winter months had sucked all life out of them. The lot were fools, just as much as Walda. Though they wore plate and mail which was enough to earn their worth, he supposed.

When the sun started to sink Ramsay returned to his chambers. About damn time. Those Karstarks are as lousy as they are persistent. But they were turn cloaks, he had to be weary of that. Sansa was not in the room though and he snappily sent a guard to retrieve her, wherever she may be. Who gave the bitch permission to leave?

She returned quickly enough though all too happy for him. He liked her sad, it made her better for fucking. Weak and feeble, it was irresistible. Her screams were like a drug. But she waltzed right up to him, smiling as if the world was right.

"M'lady," he said, waving the guard away who tsked and shut the door heavily.

"Arya," she replied evenly, calmly. Arya? Who in seven hells was that? Some kitchen wench surely.

"Do you take me for a fool?" Ramsay demanded, his voice a growl as he grabbed her wrist, clenching his fist.

Sansa whimpered, eyes going wide. "F- fool no! What has gotten into you? Arya whats wrong?"

Now he was pissed. Was his wife seeing some slut, some whore as her mistress? The thought made him hiss and bite his cheek to keep from slapping her. But oh that would come later, for when she was begging and crying those sweet sounds he loved so much. "Get on the bed," he commanded, tone icy and slick.

"W-what?" Sansa asked, trying to pull away. "Arya I don't want to. Please I-"

He shoved her, causing her to fall back onto the foot of the bed where she whimpered, curling her legs up and trying to hide herself. "Please stop Arya! Please!"

Tears were already in her eyes. Maybe this Arya could be of some use, more so than Myranda at least. He would send for her on the morrow and then see how she was in bed.

"Turn around."

Sansa did as she was told. There was his obedient little wench, pert and ready for him. His member throbbed at the sight.

Then why did it feel so wrong?


	8. PLEASE LEAVE

Ramsay started to unbutton his breeches, but his fingers seemed to resist. But why were they? Had the cold finally settled within him?

Sansa was full on _sobbing._ She was hunched over like a good little whore but she was _crying._ She usually didnt cry, she always shrieked and choked but never cried. She had grown soft and stupid. Craven. Maybe this Arya was changing her, damn girl. He wouldn't call for her tomorrow to fuck, he would call her to loose a hand.

He moved over to her, pressing on her back which shook so much he had trouble keeping his grip. He hissed under his breath. "Stop crying, whore," he snapped, curling his lip in a smile.

For a moment it looked like Sansa might scream, then she was silent. It was normal for her to be silent, to take it until he started using other means to pleasure himself. It was how it always was, how it always will be. The North was his and so was the key to it. Thats all she was, a key.

And yet..

Arya..

He had heard that name before.

Then it hit him. Arya was her sister, Arya Stark. The youngest daughter to be sure, but a Stark nonetheless. Was she here? Did she somehow get inside Winterfell? He ground his teeth in annoyance. Damn girl. She would loose a lot more than a hand when he found her.

And yet..

He leaned over Sansa, breathing down her neck and causing her to shiver. But he gained no pleasure out of her distress. Only a faint uneasiness. Where had that come from? He shook his head, picturing what was to come. But he did not harden and he did not look forward to it. Something was stopping him. But what?

"Please dont," she whimpered faintly. "Ramsay I- is dead. Y.. you cant be him!"

Ramsay glared down at Sansa before yanking her hair and causing her to yelp. "Do I look dead to you?"

"Arya killed you! Please! You're dead! Please! Arya! Thats you!" She was hysterical, struggling under him. Maybe he was wrong about her being obedient. He would need to fix that.

And yet..

Arya Stark. She ran away from King's Landing. She was not at the Red Wedding, god's new where she ended up. But she was here.. how? What had even happened the past few days? They were clouded like a haze, a sullen blur to his memories. He tried to picture it but couldn't. That wasn't him those days, it couldn't have been. His growled causing Sansa to whimper, though his intentions were no longer set on her.

Arya Stark. The one with many faces. She used peoples faces and hid behind them. She is the daughter of Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully. Her brothers are Bran, Rickon and Robb. Her bastard brother is Jon Snow. Her sister is.. Sansa.

_I am Arry. I am Weasel. I am Squab. I am a faceless assasin. I am no one. I am Arya Stark of Winterfell._

Arya gasped and pulled away, stumbling as she _ripped_ Ramsay's face off of her. She was sweating and shaking, gasping as her memories flooded back. Her body was her own again, no longer tainted by that monstrous traitor.

She felt so dirty, so vile and putrid. She was Ramsay Bolton. But no. She is Arya Stark of Winterfell. Home.

"I' Im sorry! Oh my gods!" Arya sobbed. For once she cried. Out of fear and hatred for herself, for what she did and almost did. She killed Walda and that poor babe. She was going to rape her own sister. Her Sansa. She screamed and hit her fist on the wall until it bled. She felt like a small girl again, sparring with Jon as he mussed her hair. Laughing with Nymeria in the woods. No. That was a time long since passed. And this was now. This terrible horrible now.

"A- Arya?" Sansa asked, her voice quavering. But she looked so relieved she was going to faint. Arya could barley focus, staring at the face which had flopped and folded on the floor. It was deadly, not only to others but herself.

"I am Arya Stark of Winterfell," she mumbled hysterically. "And I am home. I am a faceless assassin. I am Arry the orphan. I rode with Yoren, nearly to the wall. My friends are Hot Pie and Gendry Waters. Sandor Clegane held me hostage and tried to sell me. I escaped. I am a faceless assassin. I am no one. I am Arya Stark of Winterfell."

Sansa watched, knees pulled to her chest, lips parted. She looked confused and worried, but also afraid. Afraid as if Arya would snap again and continue what she was about to do. No. Not what _she_ was about to do. What _Ramsay_ was about to do. He lived again, however a short time. She would not wear that damned face again if it killed her.

"Im so sorry!" Arya shouted, tears sliding down her cheeks. But she didnt care. None of it mattered. Not anymore. Not now. She looked to Sansa who was still as a statue, and as pale as one too. Her lips were drawn in a grimace which quickly hardened.

"Arya get out," she said. The bite was little but it was there and caused Arya to stutter. Her mouth went dry. "Sansa.."

"I said get out!" she yelled more forcefully. But what could Arya do? She would have to put on that face again just to have hope of survving out the door. But she couldn't. She couldn't do it. She was not Ramsay, he was not her. She wasnt the warden of the north. But Sansa.. "Please," Arya begged, on her knees like an old codger scrambling for coins in Flea Bottom.

Sansa clenched her teeth, stalling a moment before shaking her head. "Get. Out. Now."

And so Arya did. She grabbed the face and wore it. It was vile and sick and made her insides churn like butter but she stomached it and wore the damn thing. She had no choice. The guards looked confused and slightly worried as she passed but she ignored them.

She slept in a spare room that night, Roose's to be exact. She shivered under the sheets which felt brittle and cold. They didnt want her here and neither did Winterfell. Neither did her sister.

"Im sorry," she whispered, voice as meek as it had ever been. "Sansa forgive me. Jon arrive soon. Winter is coming, and I snuffed my fire."

 


	9. Please Forgive Me

Arya awoke slowly, her mind swimming. Last night felt like a lurid dream, sickly at the corners of her vision. But it all came crashing back in a wave of pain and fury. She had almost..

She shook her head. She was still Arya Stark, not Ramsay Bolton. It was time she made that distinction to be sure. She wasnt quite certain at what time she woke, but the sun had risen behind a patchwork of clouds that lined the sky like puffs of gilded metal.

Her face was her own until she dawned Ramsay's, though it was with a sullen, limp grip. She would keep to herself, talking little. Jon just had to get here.. and soon. She couldnt bear to even pose as this bastard a moment longer; the looks of fear and mixed hate.

She hated that, almost as much she had grown to hate being No One. It was a pang in her chest, weighting her ribs as if they were metal she was trying to bend. But she distilled her fears and forced herself to be calm as she left her chambers and threaded beyond the patrols.

No one made so much as a backward glance at her. She was thankful for that. Even the lords of the North sensed something was wrong, deciding to speak little and of simple matters rather than warfare and tactics. No one spoke of Walda Frey and her son, of Sansa and her screams of the night prior. In fact, Sansa seemed to be illusive this morning, as distant as the Wall.

Arya sought her out slowly, seeking her in the library and kennels but she was nowhere to be found. For a tearful moment of worry she thought her elder sister might have escaped, but Reek's ramblings calmed her. He said she was out in the yard, closer to the wall, sitting under a wicker roof. It looked warm enough, though she shivered. Her hair looked to be spun of copper wires, which glinted just like the metal in the morning light.

The young Stark approached with trepidation, her footing light. She could not take off the mask here, but a husband talking to his wife was nothing to gawk at. Sansa looked up as she approached, her face a mask of pale distrust and obvious worry. She scooted away as Arya sat, looking as if she might stand and leave.

There was a heavy, still silence. Only the soft patter of wind against the shutter and the mumble of voices inside the halls. It reminded Arya painfully of her life before her Father's beheading, how she had run through those very walls, chasing Bran or Nymeria, playing with Jon and Robb in the crypts. Even poking at Sansa, though unkindly as a thorn bush. Perhaps she was better suited as a Tyrell.

"You know we cant talk here," Sansa stated, though her voice was as impassive as her face.

Arya exhaled heavily. "I know, but I promise I am in control."

"You said that before. I am like to trust you, I know, but you must understand," She turned her gaze to Arya, seeing only a kinder form of Ramsay. "Every time I look at that face- I see Ramsay. Every time I look at you- I see Ramsay.  Its becoming harder and harder to make the distinction."

The words hit Arya square in the chest, winding her like no blow from a sword pommel could. It was cruel and icy, like the frozen North itself. Arya looked down at her shoes, but they were not her's. They were Ramsay's, a bastard's. For once she felt like she knew what it was like to be Jon.

"Thats not fair," Arya hissed, gaining some level of regard. "I am _not_ Ramsay. He is _dead._ I dont know how I prove that to you, I did a lousy job of it before but- we are a pack right? The Starks?" For once she felt vanuerable, weak. Nearly craven though she dare not.

Sansa glanced at her, eyes glinting with an emotion Arya didnt understand. "We are."

Arya felt her heart sinking. "I meant what I said you know. I will never hurt you, I am _not_ Ramsay."

Her older sister looked solemn for a moment before slowly reaching out and taking Arya's hand. "Forgive me for not looking at you right now then. His face is still very much in front of mine."

Arya sighed. It wasnt an agreement or opposition, but it still made her heart flutter and chest contract painfully. Gods she had messed up, beyond repair. All she wanted was for Jon to show up. That was all she needed, a savior. He may as well be Baelor the Blessed or Azor Ahai for all she attributed to him. But it was true. The North was a kingdom, and they needed a new king, a just king. Not a Bolton.

 

 

It was evening when the wildlings arrived. They came in a mass that stretched across the horizon, like a thousand small flakes of metal and stone. A gaint was among them, Arya saw, and it made her eyes go wide. She thought they had been wiped out, but then again, she had thought the same of many undead men she had come to know, including her own family.

"M'lord?" Harald Karstark asked, coming to stand beside her on the Rampart. He looked taken aback at the sight of such an army, but it only made Arya swell with pride. _Her_ brother. _Her_ Jon Snow. It made her feel a little more safe, a little more human.

A few horses departed from the main host, traveling down the road to the gates of Winterfell. Arya quickly descended the ramparts, Harald hot on her heels. "Are we simply to surrender to them?"

Arya grimaced. The time was coming to reveal herself, but what kind of hate would that spur? Would the North still ralley to her cry? Would Jon? Would Sansa? Gods knew she was watching now, high up above the parapets, forbidden by the lords to go down. Jon was not to have contact with her; they still believed the whole deal to be a folly.

Jon was among the riders to stroll up to the gates. He was awash in black drapes and a glimmering sword, slick with dried blood. His eyes watched Arya coldly, but he did not see what was underneath. It was better that way. She needed to stay hidden a little while longer at least.

She stood at the portcullis, nodding to Jon. Beside him strode a few men, one of which was a large red haired near giant, a wildling. A few others flocked around him, a frog faced boy, a long eared man and some more she didn't have faces for. They all looked angry. What was she to do?

Her eyes twitched as she thought.

"Ramsay Bolton," Jon said icily. "You wish for a surrender?"

Arya nodded numbly. "I do."

"On what grounds?"

"Justice," she responded easily enough. Her fingers twitched. She wanted to remove the face, and now, under the gaze of an army, she could. It slipped off her features like threadbare sattin and fell into a pile of snow, hopefully lost forever.

Jon just gaped, eyes wide. The horses whinnied fearfully as the wildlings shouted.

"Arya?" Jon asked, trying to keep his composure.

And for once in her life, she knew exactly who she was.


End file.
